Chapter 2 The Quiet Exodus

(Natasha)

The temperature always seems to drop when I cross the threshold of the Warren Estate.

Cold enough to pass for a museum. 

Or a prison.

A brilliantly designed one.

People say grief is loud. That it makes you scream, cry, break things.

Maybe that’s true for some people. 

I didn’t cry. Because screaming requires oxygen, and right then, breathing was already taking more effort than I could spare.

I pull my phone out of my purse and dial a number I haven’t touched in over a year.

The line rings twice before my property manager answers.

The surprise in his voice is obvious. “Ms. Kelly?”

“Get my townhouse ready,” I tell him.

My voice sounds smooth enough, even though my hands are trembling slightly. “Hire a premium crew. Scrub it from top to bottom. Open every window and air the place out.”

A pause.

“I’m moving back in by the end of the week.”

Until then, I’ll stay in a hotel.

One thing is certain—I am not spending another night under Chase Warren’s roof.

I head up the grand staircase and start packing, methodically.

Only the armor from my previous life makes the cut.

Expensive designer fabrics the CFO Natasha wore get tossed into my old Louis Vuitton travel set.

The pastel maternity dresses, purchased to play the role of Chase’s soft, compliant wife, remain untouched.

They no longer belong to me. The woman who wore those soft clothes died in a sterile clinic hallway an hour ago.

On my way to the laundry room to salvage a favorite blouse, my foot hits something slick.

The soap is spread right across the threshold.

Deliberately.

My leather sole loses traction, and suddenly gravity yanks me down before my brain can even process what’s happening.

The floor rushes up. The impact is brutal.

Bone collides with hardwood with a sickening crack that sends a jagged bolt of white-hot pain shooting straight up my leg. The air is punched violently out of my lungs.

For a moment, I see stars.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough, the metallic taste floods my mouth.

Whimpering isn’t an option. I will never again show weakness in this house.

My knee is already swelling beneath my trousers, throbbing with a vicious heat.

I drag my pregnant body upright using the edge of the washing machine.

No one comes running.

No gasps of concern echo down the hallway.

That isn’t surprising. 

The housekeeper takes her cues straight from the top, my mother-in-law, Eleanor Warren.

Whenever Chase isn’t around, her small, petty hostilities surface like clockwork.

Cold coffee.

Ignored requests.

Little booby traps like the one I just fell into.

They’re her way of reminding me exactly where I stand in the household hierarchy.

I hobble toward the kitchen and pull an ice pack from the freezer.

Sitting down on a folding stool, I press the cold plastic against my knee.

The quiet stretches out around me and an old wound cracks open.

Abandonment has always been the only inheritance my bloodline ever offered me.

My mother left when I was only a little girl.

She took my older brother with her. But not me.

She just packed her bags and slipped out the back door without a single glance back.

My father didn’t survive the betrayal much better than I did.

He methodically destroyed every photograph, every object that carried their memory.

By the time I was old enough to ask questions, their faces were already gone.

Eventually, he disappeared too.

Not by choice. But death has a way of finalizing abandonment.

The day the earth swallowed his casket, I learned a lesson the universe clearly wanted to make permanent.

I am the only person I can rely on.

My hand drifts to the restless curve of my stomach, the baby kicks softly beneath my palm.

A fierce, feral protectiveness ignites in my chest.

This child will never know that kind of coldness.

They will never grow up wondering if love is conditional.

We will survive this. Together.

“Always so clumsy.” Eleanor Warren’s voice slices through the quiet like broken glass.

She stands in the doorway, wrapped in immaculate cashmere. Her posture perfect, her expression carved from marble as she stares down her nose at my injured knee.

Her tongue clicks elegant yet disdainful. “She would never make a scene like this.”

Her words hang in the air like poison.

She. Meaning Sonia.

Of course Eleanor already knows about the willow-thin girl draped over her son’s arm.

For all I know, she may have introduced them.

To Eleanor, I was never anything more than a temporary incubator.

A mistake her son needed to correct.

Her sharp gaze drifts past me. It lands on the half-packed suitcase visible through the open bedroom door.

Her expression hardens.

“There are documents in the study that need to be delivered to the company immediately, take care of it.”

It isn’t a request.

I want to show her exactly where she can file those documents. Up her…

But arguing with Eleanor Warren is a spectacular waste of energy, energy I don't have right now.

So I push myself up from the stool, ignoring the sharp protest from my knee, and walk past her without saying a single word.

The study smells like polished mahogany and old money.

Chase’s desk is exactly the way he always keeps it. Precise and controlled.

And sitting on top of it is a thick stack of legal paper.

The divorce agreement, drafted weeks ago.

I slip the packet into my tote bag. A grim sort of satisfaction settles in my chest.

Delivery accepted, but terms to be negotiated.

The agreement offers me a generous monthly allowance.

But I don’t need Chase Warren funding my life.

I don’t want my child anywhere near the Warren family.

Not their money. Not their influence. And certainly not their poison.

I open the laptop on the desk and draft an addendum. It takes less than ten minutes.

I sign away any claim to the Warren fortune. Present and future. Every last cent.

All I ask for in return is full custody.

The drive to Warren Global is a blur but for the throbbing pain in my knee.

My phone buzzes against the center console.

One name flashes across the screen. Mason.

A small, genuine smile tugs at my lips. I answer the call.

“Nat.” His deep voice fills the quiet car immediately, and he doesn’t bother with greetings.

“I need a massive favor.”

“Define massive,” I say, keeping my eyes on the traffic ahead.

“A tech sector acquisition. High stakes. Completely volatile. And the deadline is currently breathing down my neck.”

He exhales sharply. “I need a shark to tear their term sheets apart. I know your husband prefers you domesticated and sidelined these days, but you’re the only person who can save this deal.”

Years ago, Mason offered me an absurdly lucrative position in his company.

But I turned him down.

At the time, I believed my future was tied to Warren Global. With Chase.

Me and Mason sat on opposite sides of negotiations more than once, tearing each other’s proposals apart with ruthless precision. But he never held it against me.

He respects me. He recognized the predator in me.

“You were never built for the sidelines, Nat,” Mason continues. “You’re wasting your brilliance playing house. We both know it.”

A pause crackles through the speaker but he continues. “The timing is garbage with the baby coming. I know that. But I need your brain on this project. Name your terms.”

I glance at the tote bag sitting in the passenger seat. The divorce papers inside it feel heavier than they should.

Yesterday, I might have hesitated.

Today, the answer feels obvious.

Something wakes up inside me. A dormant thrill I haven’t felt in over a year. The corporate battlefield is calling me home.

“I’m getting divorced,” I say.

The words sound calm, steady and terrifyingly real.

“Send the NDA, Mason.” I press harder on the gas. “I’m in.”